


Blind Date

by beetle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Acceptance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Date, Confessions, Feels, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, Meet-Cute, No major character death!!!!!!, Self-Acceptance, Trans Character, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:36:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: When Dorian meet-cutes Krem . . . also, Bull and Lavellan are there, too.





	Blind Date

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Goths_and_Roses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goths_and_Roses/gifts), [hotot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU. Canon trans character. Prompt in end notes.

 

 

“. . . and this . . . Krim—”

 

“ _Krem_.”

 

“Right—Krem, because that’s so much better than _Krim_ —”

 

“It’s actually short for _Cremisius_. Cremisius Aclassi.”

 

“Ah! It gets _even better_!” Dorian exclaimed with suspect joy as he fiddled with his already and as-usual _perfect_ undercut in front of his hall mirror. “I do, so, enjoy the pretentiously overwrought names some families foist upon their poor children! As if a stuffy, ancient, _hideous_ name might someday make up for some future shortcoming!”

 

Waiting with stilted patience at the front door, Criss Lavellan, in his customary textured black outfit—this one of leather pants, plain cotton wife-beater under a velvet over-shirt, scads of random, gothic silver jewelry and accents, and his favorite pair of steel-toed face-smashers—brushed his heavy, bright-red, asymmetrically-cut hair back over his right shoulder and crossed his arms. His big, green-gold eyes sparkled with exasperated fondness.

 

“Really, Dorian, I love you _endlessly_ , but you’re a terrible snob,” Criss said with more amusement than judgement. Dorian smirked at his reflection and winked at it, as well.

 

“And _you’re_ my dearest friend in the world, so what does that make _you_?”

 

“Apparently patient, but not very discriminating.” Criss snorted when Dorian bent an offended look at him. “Oh, _do_ stop primping, Dorian! You look as perfect as ever—not a hair or a stitch out of place on you. Krem will be bowled over.”

 

Dorian huffed. “ _Of course_ , he will. But that’s not why I’m . . . _primping_ , as you so cattily put it.”

 

“Really?” Criss smirked and waved one long, elegant hand. “ _Do_ enlighten me, Princess Dorian.”

 

This earned Criss a full, flat glare before Dorian returned to his fiddling. He looked, as always, ridiculously delectable in his tight, cream-colored skinny-jeans, burgundy v-neck pullover, and camel-colored blazer over that, and finished with a pair of low, fawn-colored suede boots.

 

“That’s _Queen_ Dorian, to you, peon.” Dorian sniffed again and finally turned away from the mirror, one shaped eyebrow quirked up. “I don’t craft my look for my dates . . . no matter how well-recommended they come,” he said dryly, striking a dramatic contrapposto which he knew showed off not only his innate grace but his well-maintained figure. Especially his toned and firm thighs, about which even _he_ would admit he was _particularly_ vain. “I make certain to look my best, so that those _other_ petty, amateur bitches know not to challenge the Queen in her own territory.”

 

Criss rolled his eyes and snickered. “You absolute, flaming poofter.”

 

“And proud of it, Lavellan.”

 

“As well you should be, for all the effort you put into it,” Criss noted fondly. Dorian’s captivating smile shone out.

 

“Well! It’s about time _someone_ noticed!” he declared, patting himself down once more for his wallet, phone, keys, and lip gloss. All present and accounted for, of course, because Dorian was, among other things, terribly well-organized and rarely forgetful. Unlike Criss, who would probably forget his head at home if it wasn’t welded to his enviously long and graceful neck.

 

“You’ve got all your affects _and_ you’re bloody gorgeous, Dorian. _Let’s go_ ,” Criss said, some impatience finally shining through. Dorian, in the mood to be a little shit to his bestie—as ever he was—sauntered slowly toward the front door and the waiting Lavellan, sashaying out of said door as it was opened for him. “Decent companionship waits for no diva.”

 

“ _Decent companionship_?” Dorian snorted. “Is _that_ what you’re calling the disturbing, kink-heavy, no-strings sex you and Bull have at all hours while _I’m_ trying to concentrate on research for my next book—or, Heaven forbid, sleep?”

 

Shutting the door to their condo behind them and locking it, Criss grumbled. “Did I say _Queen Dorian_? Let me amend that to _Empress Bitch_.”

 

Smirking, Dorian lead the way to Criss’s mean, low-to-the-ground, beast of a muscle-car—the thing consumed petrol like Dorian consumed wine—rolling his eyes to the skies in a plea for patience as Criss, the least fastidious person Dorian knew, _except_ when it came to his precious car, did his usual walk-around and sight-check.

 

When the lean, long-limbed performer—an illusionist, of all things, specializing in street-magic and sleight of hand—was satisfied that no bird had shat or squirrel had farted on his darling, he unlocked it with his key-fob and gestured for Dorian to get in.

 

Rolling his eyes and muttering about _some_ people’s lack of chivalry, Dorian opened his own door and slid into the leather-smelling interior. Less than half a minute later, with a roaring, hungry rumble, the car was speeding happily out of their block, Criss piloting it with relaxed competence and nodding in time to some godawful music only he could hear. His face was alight with anticipation at seeing his not-boyfriend, mouth curving in an absent, but sensual smile.

 

 _Well, I suppose it’s good that at least_ one _of us has something to look forward to_ , Dorian thought grimly, sighing. _Frankly, I’ll be surprised and content if this . . . Krem can hold up his end of the stilted and awkward conversation we’ll be forced to carry on while Criss and Bull are screwing in the men’s room, like that last time!_

 

Clutching his seatbelt with white-knuckled hands, Dorian rolled his eyes. Not that the double-date with Criss’s ninth cousin, six times removed, had been going _well_ before Criss and Bull had snuck off, one after the other, then not returned from the lav for the better part of half an hour, flushed, disheveled, and smug. But being left to listen to the cousin drone on about his _endless_ relatives—the Lavellans were _legion_ in this part of the world, practically a race unto itself instead of a mere family—while trying _not_ to focus on how much the cousin looked like a raven-haired, blue-eyed _Criss_ , had been . . . disturbing and tiring.

 

The best Dorian knew to expect from _this_ blind date with Bull’s friend, was a night that went by quickly and fairly smoothly . . . then ended without any sort of drama, or raised hopes or expectations.

 

And, of course, it would be nice if this . . . _Krem_ was easy on the eyes in a way that did _not_ put Dorian in mind of his best friend. It certainly never hurt to have something nice to look at while waiting for a painful night to be over.

 

“ _Must_ you drive so _recklessly_?” Dorian moaned as Criss took a corner sharply, speeding up rather than slowing down. The other man’s lips twisted in a smirk that was almost sadistic. And the car put on another small burst of speed.

 

“Get your driver’s license, _then_ critique my driving, Mr. Pavus.”

 

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Dorian shook his head and closed his eyes. It was easier to be Criss’s passenger when he _couldn’t_ _see_ death being courted at every turn.

 

#

 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, Chief,” Krem lamented, stirring his glass of ice-water with one of the restaurant’s long, thin breadsticks . . . before taking a glum bite of the wetted end and adding, “and on chili-night, too. It’s Dalish’s turn, y’know?”

 

“Oh, I know, Krem-de-la-crème. That woman’s a chili- _mage_ . . . which is why I asked her to stash some away for me and thee, where the others can’t find it and eat it all,” the Chief said lightly, taking a long swig of his beer—strong, dark, _horrible_ foreign-stuff that tasted like it was brewed with piss, peat, and bad intentions—and sitting back in his chair. Even sitting, the Chief had a swagger that Krem had always envied, even more than the height and muscles.

 

 _Though_ , Krem reflected wryly, _another near-foot of height and ninety pounds of solid muscle’d be nice to have, too_.

 

He smiled a little and shrugged, taking another bite of his damp breadstick. “Well . . . I s’pose that’s all right, then. Between Grim and Skinner, Dalish’s chili doesn’t last an hour after she’s made it.”

 

The Chief snorted. “And then Grim and Skinner spend the rest of the night and most of the next morning moaning in the bathroom. Huh. Serves ‘em right, greedy assholes.”

 

His iffy smile turning into a wide grin, Krem chuckled. “It ain’t chili unless it burns goin’ in _and_ comin’ out.”

 

“Preachin’ to the choir, Krem-puff.” The Chief sighed, glancing to his left, past the bar and to the reservation stand, where a tall, statuesque hostess was welcoming a smiling older couple. “Up to a point, anyway. Remember when Rocky made that chili that was _so_ hot, Stitches was begging us to shove a CO2 extinguisher up his ass, the next morning? That . . . wasn’t cool.”

 

Krem winced in remembrance. “Yeah. Poor Stitches. Never seen a paramedic who’s always sick, like he is, poor bastard.”

 

The Chief nodded, running one big mitt over his salt-and-pepper crewcut as he continued gazing intently at the archway just beyond the reservations-stand, which was temporarily empty while the hostess showed the older couple to their table. The Chief’s storm-gray gaze was slightly narrowed, his almost brutishly-handsome face, with its rogue-cop stubble, cleft chin, and Nick Fury-esque eye-patch—as always, Krem felt a pang of guilt that was only rivalled by his deep and sincere respect, loyalty, and affection for the man—gone nearly innocent and open with anticipation.

 

With _hope_.

 

Krem smiled. “Criss not usually this late, then?” he asked dryly. The Chief made a face, but didn’t look away from the archway.

 

“Oh, he’s _always_ this late. Late-er, even. It’s not that he has _no regard_ for others’ time . . . it’s that he has no concept of time, itself.” The Chief made a sound that was half-sigh, half-grumble, and all fond. “He must’ve been shit in his high school Physics class.”

 

Snorting a quiet laugh, Krem selected another breadstick. This one, however, didn’t get the dunk-and-stir treatment. “That makes two of us. Though, I doubt it’s his . . . _scientifical_ _prowess_ that’s the reason you’ve been seeing him for seven months. Exclusively.”

 

Now, the Chief looked away from the entrance, back at Krem, scowling. “It’s seven-and-a-half months, actually. Next Tuesday.”

 

Krem whistled, covering his mouth so he didn’t give the Chief a face full of damp crumbs. When the breadstick was gone, he grinned. “This’s the longest I’ve ever seen you take up with _anyone_ , Chief, let alone exclusively. He must be somethin’ _real_ special.”

 

The Chief’s face went through several rapid-fire emotions, none of which Krem could quite read, before settling on an almost pouty sort of anxiousness. He took another long swallow of his godawful beer— _Maraas-lok_ , the label said, and the Chief claimed that literally meant “drink” in his native tongue—and coughed politely, but hard, into the fine wool of his tailored dinner jacket.

 

Krem’s brows quirked up. “Smooth, eh?”

 

“Like a baby’s ass,” the Chief choked out in agreement, and this time, Krem’s laugh was long and hearty. “And . . . yeah . . . Criss _is_ . . . special,” the older man went on with unusual reluctance, his brow furrowed from some sort of consternation. “Initially, this thing between us was all about no-strings sex and exploring our . . . complimentary kinks. Initially.”

 

“And now?” Krem asked gently, when the Chief’d been glowering down at his hand, which was loosely gripping his beer bottle, for more than a minute.

 

The Chief’s troubled, gray eye met Krem’s, measuring and appraising. With another sigh, the other man let go of his beer and reached into his jacket’s inner breast pocket—the one behind the blood-red pocket-square. He pulled out a white-gold chain, from which hung a pendant that looked like an inch-long, jagged grey-green tooth. Well . . . the vertical right-half of one, anyway.

 

“What’s that?” Krem asked, leaning in to get a better look at the necklace resting in the Chief’s big, rough palm. The grey-green stone glinted mellowly, with flecks of amber and gold in its depths.

 

“It’s a necklace, Krem.”

 

“And here, I thought it was a pair of pliers!”

 

The Chief smiled, small and limp. “It’s . . . a _special_ necklace. The Necklace of the Kadan. There’s a . . . tradition, where I’m from. When you care about someone deeply enough to want to . . . bind them to you, you give them half of a dragon’s tooth. And you carry the other half. That way, you’re never separated. Not really,” he claimed, withdrawing his hand and the necklace, to shove it back in his pocket.

 

Krem frowned. “You _do_ know there’s no such thing as dragons, Chief. Right?”

 

The Chief rolled his eye. “Dragon’s tooth is the name of the stone, Krem-fraiche. And you’re missing the point.” With another sigh, the Chief leaned forward as if about to impart a deep secret. “I . . . even in my homeland, dragon’s tooth stones are . . . difficult to come by. They mean more than just the stone, itself, or the giving of it. The journey and quest that goes into finding it is, in itself, a declaration of intentions. A . . . plighting of troth, some might say.”

 

Krem blinked. Then did a quick translation from Chief-to-English, and his brown eyes widened. “Oh! So, it’s like . . . like a promise-ring?”

 

Now, the Chief _really_ made a face. “The Necklace of the Kadan is nothing so prosaic, Krem. It can’t be dickered over at a jewelry kiosk in Piccadilly or even traded for. It can only be bought with pain and trial and travail, at great personal cost to the giver.”

 

Krem’s brows lifted again. “So . . . when you took that three-week Leave to visit the ol’ homeland, a month ago. . . .”

 

The Chief nodded grimly. “It cost me some blood, sweat, and tears—got me some new scars, too—but I got a dragon’s tooth. And I made the necklace,” he said quietly, rolling his right shoulder and wincing as if it pained him. “I’m planning on giving it to Criss tonight. After dinner, when you and Dorian are—one hopes—off somewhere alone, getting better acquainted by your two-some.”

 

“Huh.” Krem watched his normally unreadable, unruffled, and unflappable boss be readable, ruffled, and flapped. Then he smirked, slow and amused. “You’re _in love_!”

 

That flustered scowl deepened. “Well, if you’re just going to belabor the obvious, Krem—”

 

“No-no, Chief! It’s—bloody _hell_ , I think it’s _brilliant_!” Grinning, now, Krem, held out his hand. With a dubious, wary glance, the Chief took it and they shook. “I’ve known you for thirteen, fourteen years, now, and I’ve never seen you so . . . _earnest_ about someone you were sleeping with. Never seen you so protective and _secretive_ , either. Everyone at the firehouse thinks this _Criss Lavellan_ is made-up, since you won’t bring him ‘round to meet us and get the _long_ overdue shovel-speech comin’ his way!”

 

“Hmph. I know what passes for manners with you assholes. Didn’t wanna . . . scare him off,” the Chief grumbled, running his hand over his crewcut again—one of exactly _two_ tells the man had, and which Krem only knew about because he’d known the Chief since he was a fifteen—and sighed. “And. . . .”

 

“And?”

 

“I . . . wasn’t sure. . . .” the Chief winced as if pained, once more. Krem nodded solemnly.

 

“Weren’t sure how you felt about him?”

 

“No . . . I’ve been sure about _that_ for a while, now,” the Chief exhaled, meeting Krem’s gaze with an almost bewildered one of his own. “Wasn’t sure how _he_ felt about _me_. _If_ he felt the same.”

 

“But now, you are.”

 

“Nope!” The Chief shrugged his broad, thick shoulders and leaned back, all swagger and cool, once more. His smirk was crooked and cavalier. “But what’s life without risk, eh? Who dares, wins! And the more you _dare_ , the more there is to _win_! _Anaan_!”

 

“Cheers!” Krem picked up his glass of ice-water and returned the Chief’s toast, taking a sip of his crumby water while the Chief drained his beer, then coughed some more. Krem rolled his eyes and was half-standing to reach over and pat the Chief’s back, when the older man glanced over to entrance and stopped coughing, his entire being lighting up in a way even Krem had never seen.

 

Following his boss’s gaze, Krem’s mouth dropped open and he, himself, dropped back into his seat like a stone into a well.

 

#

 

“Criss!”

 

Dorian and Criss glanced over from the hostess, into the restaurant, to the left of center. Half-standing, and waving at them, as if anyone could _possibly_ miss the six-foot-eight wall of swarthy muscle in their midst, was Bull.

 

“Oh, for the love of—” Dorian groaned under his breath.

 

“Ah—Bull and Krem are already here!” Criss noted eagerly, nodding at the hostess, who smiled with repressed amusement.

 

“You think?” Dorian snarked, then huffed as Criss took his elbow and all but dragged him into the dining area, between the tables and servers. As they approached, Bull stood to his full height, grinning rakishly, giving Criss an unhidden once-over that simmered. He was, if one liked the type, quite handsome. In a _brutish_ sort of way, even in his tailored—by necessity, because of his size—and fashionable business-casual wear of charcoal-colored jacket, heather-grey button-down, and matching slacks.

 

 _If_ one liked the type, Bull was a veritable smorgasbord of a man. And it was clear, from the way Criss’s dragging of Dorian intensified, that he was _more_ than ready for a big meal.

 

When they reached the table, Criss let go of Dorian’s elbow and stepped up to Bull, aggressively in the larger man’s personal space and probably smirking.

 

Bull smirked right back and grabbed Criss around the waist with one ham-fist, pulling the smaller man against him, and kissing him hard and deep. Equally torn between jealousy and disdain, Dorian watched the couple snog—watched Bull’s hand migrate from Criss’s waist to Criss’s _arse_ , where it gripped possessively and promisingly—until the other person at the table cleared his throat and stood.

 

“So, I assume that’s Criss Lavellan,” the young man said laconically, light-brown eyes twinkling as Dorian met them. For a long moment, neither man said anything—merely sized each other up. Then Dorian’s date held out his hand with a crooked, charming grin. “Which would make you Dorian Pavus.”

 

“Well. _Someone_ has to be, I suppose. Though, I’m still not certain whether I’m a volunteer, or I’ve been drafted,” Dorian drawled, eyeing his date some more, before taking the offered hand. It was square and work-rough, and slightly smaller than his own. But the grip was strong and firm. “And you would be Krem. Or do you prefer Cremisius?”

 

The younger man shrugged, easy and good-natured. “Krem’s faster. But I’ll answer to either.” His gaze, frank and admiring, swept over Dorian with a wry sort of self-deprecation. “Especially if _you’re_ doing the calling.”

 

Dorian smiled absently and chuckled, giving Krem a rather appreciative once-over of his own. He wasn’t a tall man, Krem—a few inches shorter than Dorian’s five-eleven—but he was well-built: rather like a brawler, all stocky, conditioned muscle, with an air of coiled, yet patient strength. His face was tanned and long, but boyish, his nose straight and sharp, his mouth wide and a bit thin-lipped. His cheekbones were high and ridiculously perfect, his brow high and clear. His eyes . . . were deep-set and long—slanted at the corners and bracketed with crow’s feet.

 

This . . . unusually fine-featured, but attractive face was topped by a medium-brown undercut that wasn’t terribly different from Dorian’s, but that it was crewcut-length . . . no doubt because of some regulation or other.

 

Krem’s right eyebrow, fine and as obliquely slanted as his warm, interested eyes, lifted in question. It was then that Dorian realized he was still holding the other man’s hand long past the time for polite letting-go.

 

“Ah,” Dorian said, clearing his throat and fighting a blush as he relinquished Krem’s hand. Krem did the same, his fingers brushing Dorian’s palm as he did so, in a way that Dorian was fairly sure was on-purpose. Which didn’t make the shiver it caused any less real. “Well, then. _Krem_ , it is.”

 

That crooked grin flashed out again, complete with perfect, white teeth. “Alright. Anything, er, specific _you_ wanna be called, if not Dorian?”

 

“He’ll answer to _Empress Bitch_ ,” Criss jumped-in with fake-innocence, and when Dorian glared over at his best friend, it was to see a smug, blissed-out smile on his flushed, freckled face. He was leaning against a smirking Bull, who had both arms around him. One of Criss’s clever, quick hands, a-flash with silver rings, rested high on Bull’s broad, hard chest. “Or, one presumes, _her Radiant Fierceness_.”

 

“Ha! He _would_ ,” Bull declared, chuckling despite Dorian including him in the glare.

 

“ _Dorian_ will do, just fine, Krem. Thank you for asking,” he said loftily, reaching for the empty chair next to Krem’s. But with speed and grace, Krem beat him to it, pulling the chair out for Dorian, and blushing as he did so. His own eyebrow raised, Dorian sat, his amused gaze never leaving Krem’s pink face.

 

“You may not be a lady, but I’m always a gentleman,” the younger man mumbled, holding Dorian’s eyes for a few moments before looking away and sliding into the adjacent seat.

 

Charmed, Dorian smiled at Krem’s profile before aiming his gaze at his silverware.

 

“It’s good to know that rumors of chivalry’s demise have been mere exaggeration,” he observed, placing his hand on the table close to Krem’s. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the beginning of another crooked grin on Krem’s mobile mouth. One that he unconsciously mirrored when Krem’s hand inched a few centimeters closer to his own.

 

And so, he didn’t notice the glance Criss and Bull shared—knowing and amused—as they, too, sat.

 

#

 

“So,” Dorian said, after his wine had been poured and he’d taken a delicate, approving sip. Krem had watched the fluid, graceful motions with the sort of gut-punch longing he hadn’t experienced in quite some time. “You’re a firefighter.”

 

“Oh! Yes!” Krem exclaimed belatedly, blushing and looking away from Dorian’s direct, considering stare. But the knowing smirk the Chief was giving him—and the amused half-smile on Criss’s gamin and puckish face—didn’t help the blush fade. So, he looked down into the depths of his crumby water and cleared his throat for the zillionth time. “That’s right. I, er, run into burning buildings to save orphans, and scale trees to rescue frightened kittens . . . for fun and profit.”

 

“Hmm,” Dorian hummed thoughtfully, swirling his wine it its glass and holding it up to the light. “Delightful. And how long _have_ you been pursuing utter insanity as a career?”

 

Krem snorted. “Eleven years, now? Started volunteering when I was eighteen—Bull recruited me. Been at it full-time since I was twenty.”

 

“Best lieutenant I’ve ever had,” the Chief said firmly, toasting Krem with his horrible beer. Next to him, Criss—whose hand was all but engulfed in the Chief’s hand, both resting on the table—sipped at his Bloody Mary and smiled.

 

“Bull has nothing but laudatory things to say about you, Krem,” he murmured in his low, warm voice. “He speaks highly of his whole team, but especially of you.”

 

Krem grinned, and this time, the blush wasn’t so unwelcome. He toasted the Chief and Criss with his water. “And I can’t imagine a better chief than, well, _the Chief_. He’s the bravest, best man I’ve ever known. It’s a genuine honor to be his second.”

 

The Chief smiled, one of his rare, touched smiles, his eyes softening for a few moments. Then _he_ was clearing his throat and aiming his gaze at Dorian. “How’s the book coming along, your Radiant Fierceness?”

 

Next to Krem, Dorian huffed, clearly torn between offense and glee. “Quite swimmingly, when I don’t have to put up with your grunts and swearing, and Criss’s caterwauling for hours on end. Neither of you have any respect for the fact that the walls of the condo are _not_ sound-proof.”

 

The Chief’s infamous smirk made a comeback. “Heh. Criss _does_ have an end worth spending _hours_ on. And I just _love_ making him caterwaul.”

 

Criss’s face turned scarlet, and he bit his lower lip, turning an opaque gaze on the Chief. “I’ll hold you to that, Bull. As ever.”

 

The Chief’s eye glinted dangerously. “ _Hours_ , Criss. I’m a man of my word. When I’m done with you, there won’t _be_ any _cater_ left to your _wauling_.”

 

While the Chief and Criss smoldered at and eye-fucked each other, Krem and Dorian shared a commiserating glance and shrug, the former chuckling a bit ruefully.

 

“You’re, er . . . writing a book?” he asked just a touch desperately, as indelicate a segue as there ever was. But Dorian seemed glad of the distraction from the intensity of the couple across from them.

 

“Yes, in my better, more inspired moments. Mostly, I’m just doing loads of research and then banging my head against a brick wall,” he admitted, with some rue of his own. Krem’s curiosity was piqued.

 

“What sort of book are you writing?”

 

“Oh, nothing at all interesting or in-demand,” Dorian blithely replied, his gaze meeting Krem’s with bright amusement. “It’s a . . . sort of in-depth history of alchemy; some stories surrounding the myth of transmutation . . . a few moldy, old bits of supposition and gossip about the Philosopher’s Stone. All that rot. It’ll be the sort of meticulous tome that sees more use as a doorstop or paperweight, than it does as actual reading-material.”

 

“Ah.” Krem laughed a little. “Sounds . . . fascinating.”

 

“It’s bloody _stultifying_ , actually.” Dorian snorted and sipped his wine. “But therein lies the great challenge: making the unpalatable palatable for a _somewhat_ _larger_ than it would’ve been audience.”

 

“Well . . . if anyone’s up to that challenge, I’m certain it’s you,” Krem said, shrugging when Dorian turned a surprised look on him. “If your writing is half as sparkling and engaging as your personality, then I have no doubts it’ll be a _very widely-read_ paperweight-slash-doorstop.”

 

Dorian laughed. “Oh, but you’re _quite_ the charmer, aren’t you, Mr. Aclassi?”

 

Krem flushed again. “ _Mr_. Aclassi was my grandfather. And I don’t know about _charm_ , but I call things like I see ‘em. Not much of a reader, me, but I’d drop a few quid on something you wrote. I’m willing to bet the last thing I’d be is _bored_ by it. I could listen to you tell me things all day.”

 

Dorian’s smile grew coy and his light-grey eyes—paler, even, than the Chief’s—lingered on Krem’s beet-red face. Krem quickly looked away, mortified by his depressing—but consistent—lack of chill. “Which is to say you, er . . . say interesting things! And you have a n-nice voice!” He winced at the cracking of his _own_ voice, up into a register he’d long-since thought to have trained out of it.

 

“Well . . . one certainly can’t complain about your taste in prospective reading-materials,” Dorian noted negligently, nudging the outer edge of Krem’s hand, where it rested on the table, with his own. His touch was warm and somewhat galvanizing, causing Krem to shiver and gape at the other man. Dorian was smirking at his wine in a way even the Chief would’ve envied. “And you have _no idea_ how nice my . . . _voice_ can be, Cremisius.”

 

Krem gulped, and supposed he had a better idea than Dorian might _think_. He took a hasty slurp of his water.

 

That coy smirk deepened just before Dorian affected sudden and rapt interest in his silverware. A few moments later, their deferential server reappeared like magic, pad at the ready. Across from Krem, the Chief and Criss finally broke their stare and quickly perused their menus. Krem, more than a little distracted by Dorian’s voice, nearness, and scent—like lavender, incense, and vellum—did the same.

 

“No idea, whatsoever. But perhaps,” Dorian mused lightly, folding his menu closed, “you’ll _find out_ . . . _soon_ , ideally.”

 

#

 

Dorian had just finished washing his hands and was checking his hair in the men’s room mirror when Criss strolled in, let the door shut, locked it, then leaned on it and watched Dorian with a small smile.

 

“You _do_ realize that _I’m_ _not_ Bull? That locking us in here will net you nothing?” Dorian ran a finger over his mustache, made a pouty-face, then glanced at his best friend’s reflection. Criss looked entirely too amused. “ _What_ , Lavellan? Out with it.”

 

The bastard had the gall to laugh. “You _like Krem_ ,” he accused, smirking and waggling his unshaped, red brows. Dorian huffed and checked his own perfect brows.

 

“What is this? High school? Do I get to seduce the football team's midfielder, again?”

 

“Such sarcasm! You _really_ like Krem,” Criss purred, crossing his long, wiry arms over his narrow chest. “Admit it!”

 

“Or what, exactly? You’ll give me a swirly?”

 

“Oh, don’t be absurd, Dorian.” Criss rolled his eyes. “For what it’s worth, Krem really likes you _back_.”

 

“ _Of course_ , he does, Criss. _Everyone_ likes me.”

 

“And when you left the table, he stared at your arse till it and you were out of sight. Blushing, the whole time, too.” Criss pushed himself away from the door and joined Dorian at the sinks.

 

“ _Of course_ , he did, Criss. _Everyone_ stares at my arse till it’s out of sight.”

 

“You jaded, conceited old queen.” Criss rolled his eyes again, then turned away from the mirror, leaning on the counter. “In all seriousness, you two are getting on . . . bafflingly well.”

 

“Why bafflingly?” Dorian glanced at his best friend. “Krem is a respectful, gallant, attentive young man. Not to mention incredibly attractive and charming. What’s to be baffled by?”

 

Criss’s right eyebrow shot up. “He’s not exactly your _type_ , is he?”

 

Dorian chuckled. “I have a _type_ , do I?”

 

“Well. An _anti_ -type, anyway. I might’ve said that _Krem_ fit in that category,” Criss admitted. Dorian whirled on him triumphantly.

 

“Aha! You _confess_ that your attempts to set me up with these apparently random men is half-arsed, at best!” he accused. Criss sputtered and turned pink.

 

“Well,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat. “Perhaps, three-quarters-arsed. I really _have_ been trying to set you up with opposites that would attract you. Something _against_ _type_ , yes, but interesting and enticing enough to hold your attention. Get you out of this . . . dating-rut you’ve been in since. . . .”

 

Dorian frowned and leaned on the counter, too, crossing his arms. “Let’s _not_ rehash _that_ old heart-ache, Lavellan.”

 

Sighing, Criss leaned against Dorian’s side for a moment, offering silent comfort. “Anyway, yes, I’ve been hoping against hope that someone radically different from your usual fare might . . . energize and intrigue you. Put that sparkle back in your eyes.”

 

“My eyes _always_ sparkle!” Dorian said defensively. Criss grinned.

 

“Since meeting Krem, they certainly _have_ _been_.” When _Dorian_ began to sputter, Criss waggled his messy, fiery brows again. “I might start calling you _Sparkles_ , instead of Dorian!”

 

“And _I_ might castrate you in your sleep!” Dorian gritted out, with narrowed eyes. Criss mock-shuddered and held up his hands in surrender.

 

“Fine, fine. But I really _haven’t_ seen you this animated or on your game in a _very_ long time, Dorian. And whether that means it’s a love-connection, or just an especially delightful one-night stand-to-be . . . I’m happy for you.” Criss’s smile gentled into the caring, concerned one that even Dorian’s hard heart couldn’t hold out against. He found himself returning the smile and nudging his best friend’s arm.

 

“And you call _me_ a queen, you soppy, old thing,” he muttered, sniffing and glowering at Criss. “If you make me blubber and get all mottled about the face, I’ll _murder_ you, Lavellan.”

 

Criss winked and linked their arms together, laying his head on Dorian’s shoulder. “Truly, my friend. You deserve the attention, affection, and companionship of a _good man_. And Krem . . . is a _very_ good man.”

 

“So’s Bull,” Dorian said softly, and could feel Criss’s surprise. “In his own way, that is. Not that, of course, that matters to _you_. No strings, after all . . . right?”

 

The ensuing silence was a beat too long. “Er, right,” Criss said uncertainly. Dorian snorted and rolled his eyes.

 

“You bloody idiot. You two _deserve_ each other,” he said fondly, wrapping an arm around Criss’s narrow shoulders with a sigh. Criss, in turn, groaned in utter agreement and swore blisteringly under his breath. “You deserve the _world_ , Lavellan. So, don’t _ever_ settle for less.”

 

The other man sniffed quietly, one long hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “Ditto, you big girl’s blouse. Ditto.”

 

#

 

“So. . . .” the Chief ventured after several minutes of silence in the wake of Dorian’s, then Criss’s temporary departures.

 

Krem looked up from his plate of veal parmigiana, the last of which he was pushing around with his fork in a rather desultory manner, and at his boss. “A needle pulling thread, Chief, but what’s your point?” Krem asked glumly, and got a smirk in return.

 

“You _like_ Dorian, don’tcha?”

 

Krem’s smile was limp and sad. “That obvious, huh?”

 

“Even from orbit, yeah. That obvious,” the Chief replied apologetically, reaching out to pat Krem’s free hand. “But on you, it’s cute, not pathetic.”

 

“Thanks? I think?” Krem’s brows furrowed and the Chief grinned.

 

“And Dorian’s _definitely_ interested in _you_.”

 

Krem grunted and dropped his morose gaze back to his plate. Mumbled at his laden fork before shuttling it to his mouth and chewing without tasting.

 

“And for some reason, I thought that’d make you happy, peaches-and-Krem.”

 

Shrugging, Krem swallowed, then poked at a clump of cheese and sauce, and sighed. “It does. Sort of. It’s just that. . . .” he shook his head, his lips pursing.

 

“What’s up, kid?” The Chief leaned in to whisper. Krem met his boss’s gaze for a moment before dropping it again.

 

“I . . . he only likes me because he thinks . . . he’s only interested because he thinks I’ve got a dick.”

 

The Chief snorted. “I happen to know you’ve got _several_ , in varying colors and vibration-speeds.”

 

Krem turned red. “You _know_ what I mean, Chief. He thinks . . . he thinks I’m a _real_ man.”

 

“You _are_ a real man, Krem.” When Krem looked up, the Chief’s face was as stony and sure as his gravelly voice. Sincere.

 

“Not in the way he _wants_.”

 

“You don’t _know_ what he wants, Krem.” The Chief heaved a sigh of his own. “You’re so afraid to give anyone the chance to reject you, that you’re also not giving them the chance to _accept you_ , either.”

 

Krem snorted. “Yeah. Because my life’s been _so_ _full_ of acceptance, Chief.”

 

“It won’t be if you don’t take a chance on someone at _some_ point,” the Chief said out flatly. “Who dares, wins, remember?”

 

Krem shrugged again, sulky and sullen.

 

“Fine. I won’t badger you about it. But I _will_ say one more thing.” The Chief leaned in again, his narrowed, gray gaze pinning Krem like a butterfly to a board. “You’ve grown into a brave and courageous man, Cremisius Aclassi. I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own son. So, take some friendly advice from an asshole who’s been in a similar situation, and give Dorian Pavus a chance to accept the bits of you that even _you_ have trouble accepting. He might, or he might not surprise you. But he _certainly_ _won’t_ if you _don’t_ give him the option.”

 

Krem hung his head. “I’ve been burned a thousand times, Chief. I don’t know that I can stomach even _one_ more rejection.”

 

The Chief frowned. “I think you may not be giving him or yourself enough credit, but—” he made a hand washing motion and shrugged.

 

After biting his lip for nearly a minute, Krem finally broke. “Right, then. What, exactly, makes you think Dorian’d be into someone like _me_? Once he finds out about my . . . plumbing-deficiencies?”

 

The Chief raised one formidable, black-haired brow. “ _Ben-Hassrath_ ,” he said simply. Krem blinked blankly.

 

“What’s _that_ mean?”

 

Snorting, the Chief, took a pull from his beer. “It means I’m an old hand at reading people. And your boy’s not as uptight and rigid as either he _or_ you thinks he is. So, dare big, Krem,” the Chief advised grimly. “You might have a lot to win, if you’re man enough to take a chance and gamble for it.”

 

Krem opened his mouth to gainsay that—after all, he knew nothing about Dorian Pavus to suggest the man was _a lot to win_ . . . but that he was _ridiculously_ gorgeous and sexy, refreshingly witty and charming, and possessed of layers and facets Krem _ached_ to explore—but a motion from the corner of his eyes, a flash of fire engine-red hair, made him look up. The Chief followed his gaze and grinned.

 

“Well, well . . . the prodigal dates have returned!” he said expansively, and they both stood up when said dates reached the table. He pulled a pink-faced, slightly red-eyed Criss close for a kiss that was surprisingly tender. Surprisingly, even for _Criss_ , who whimpered almost silently, then cupped the Chief’s face in his silver-ringed hand, and gave as good as he got.

 

Krem found himself smiling and hoping that the Chief took his own advice to heart and went through with the whole Necklace of the Kadan-thing.

 

Something told him that the Chief’d find a _very_ receptive recipient.

 

“So,” Dorian said, managing to sound both indulgent and put-upon as he seated himself and tucked his napkin back onto his lap. His gray eyes met Krem’s and held their gaze with more than a little consideration before he shrugged and nodded at the Chief and Criss, who were now drawing the attention of most of the dining room. “I imagine, from this rather deplorable display, that I’ll be out a ride home, tonight.”

 

Krem nodded, sat, and opened his mouth to ask if Dorian needed cab-fare— _perhaps_ , he thought, _we might even share one_ —when the key-fob to the Chief’s big, red pick-up truck landed in the last of Krem’s tepid veal parmigiana. Krem’s head whipped up, just in time to see the Chief’s right hand return to its favorite spot: on Criss’s arse.

 

Then Krem looked back at Dorian, who was smirking secretively down at his own mostly-finished pasta primavera. Krem swallowed, and ignored the small voice in the back of his brain wailing: _It’s a trap!_

 

“I, erm— _I_ can, ah, drop you off home . . . if you like,” he finally offered, fishing the key-fob out the remains of his dinner and blushing furiously under Dorian’s arch and knowing look.

 

“From you? I’d _love_ a ride. Home, that is,” he added in an inflectionless murmur, that secretive smile becoming downright evil.

 

Krem turned fuschia, and busied himself with cleaning marinara sauce off his boss’s key-fob.

 

#

 

Dorian watched as his best friend—and his best friend’s lover—sped off with a honk and a wave in Criss’s souped-up beast. The engine was louder than anything had a right to be.

 

He smiled, then snorted, turning to face a blushing Krem, who was rocking back and forth on heel and toe, hands shoved in the pockets of his tan trousers. He looked so nervous and ill-at-ease—pale and almost frightened under his tan. Dorian was . . . rather charmed.

 

He took Krem’s arm and leaned into the shorter man, who froze in the midst of his rocking and went board-stiff.

 

“You know, you needn’t be as nervous as you are . . . I _like_ you, Krem. More than I should,” Dorian admitted. Then sighed. “More than I _planned_ _to_ , anyway.”

 

Krem swallowed audibly, then looked up at Dorian with sad, yearning eyes. “You’re _beautiful_ ,” he said plainly. “And funny and smart and interesting and . . . _so_ out of my league.”

 

Dorian huffed, but smiled. “Oh, I’m out of _everyone’s_ league, don’t you know? _Laughably_ so. Don’t worry about it.”

 

“But _I do_ ,” Krem said, his clear, high brow furrowing unhappily for a few moments. “I worry.”

 

“Yes,” Dorian said, leaning closer and holding Krem’s worried gaze, “but you _shouldn’t_.”

 

“But . . . I _do_ ,” Krem exhaled, turning his face away even as Dorian leaned closer with obvious intent. Then he growled. “Bloody fucking _hell_!”

 

Dorian smiled absently, feeling briefly thwarted. “You know, for someone who’s about to get invited to come see my etchings, you’re playing _awfully_ hard-to-get.”

 

Krem looked up at Dorian with wide eyes and a gobsmacked gape that shouldn’t have been so adorable . . . but was. Dorian’s inner-bitch laughed at him, and accused him of going _soft_. Looking into Krem’s emotive, earnest eyes, Dorian couldn’t even disagree. “ _Whah_?” Krem finally demanded, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

 

“Look, let’s don’t be coy any longer, Cremisius. Flirting is all very nice, but _I_? Am _not_ a nice man. _You want me_. And that want is entirely reciprocated.” Dorian let his eyebrows lift gently toward his hairline. Krem was still gaping and blinking. It made him look far younger than anyone Dorian had a right to be propositioning. “I knew within a minute of meeting you that you’d be coming back to mine. Or I’d be going to yours. Whichever.” Shrugging, Dorian tried on a reassuring smile. “I think you’ll find I’m . . . flexible on a number of things.”

 

Krem flushed even deeper and began to stammer. “I—we—fuck! My flat’s a disaster area!”

 

“Then we’ll be going to mine,” Dorian decided smoothly, as the valet pulled up with Bull’s ridiculous pick-up. The young man hopped out and strode over to them with a cheerful grin, handing Krem the key-fob. Which Krem dropped. Then nearly concussed himself _and_ the valet when they both bent to retrieve it.

 

Dorian’s inner-bitch was having a _field-day_.

 

“You, too, mate!” Krem called after the valet a few moments later, when the young man wished them a good evening. Then he hurried back to his station, there to await the next exiting patrons . . . leaving Krem jingling the keys and avoiding Dorian’s eyes. And Dorian gazing with acquisitive glee at his prospective company.

 

 _Adorable_ , he thought, almost despairingly. And on that, he and his inner-bitch quite agreed. _Handsome, quirky, sweet, and_ infernally adorable. _Ugh_.

 

Sighing, and resigned to doing the heavy-lifting of this sudden and accelerated courtship, he took Krem’s arm again. “I want you, Cremisius,” he said softly. “Very much.”

 

“And I want _you_ , Dorian. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time,” Krem blurted out, turning his pleading gaze on Dorian again, naked and urgent. “You’re . . . a bloody dream come true.”

 

“You don’t know the half of it. But you will,” Dorian promised. Krem shook his head.

 

“I’m . . . not who you think I am, Dorian.”

 

“Oh?” Dorian tilted his head curiously. “And _whom_ , exactly, do I think you are?”

 

Krem’s eyes widened and his lower lip trembled, before firming up. He squared his strong, though not terribly broad shoulders and was clearly marshalling all his resolve.

 

 _Adorable_ , the inner-bitch whispered irritably, seeming almost personally offended at Krem’s innate charm.

 

“Dorian,” the young firefighter began slowly, his voice cracking anxiously. “I’m not . . . I mean, I don’t _have_ . . .I wasn’t _born_. . . .”

 

“Krem,” Dorian murmured after the frustrated younger man trailed off miserably. Light-brown eyes, shining far too much to be anything other than teary, met Dorian’s with a mixture of guilt, shame, and yearning. Krem took a deep, shaking breath and let it out slowly.

 

“What I’m trying to say. . . .” he croaked out, then blinked and fell silent as Dorian leaned down to kiss him lightly, his mouth pressing Krem’s firmly, unmistakably, and patiently. _Persisting_ until the other man returned the kiss with a low groan, his free hand coming up to cup Dorian’s face reverently and oh, so gently.

 

When Dorian reluctantly pulled away, Krem didn’t open his eyes, merely sighed.

 

“You don’t _know_ ,” he whispered, his callused thumb still stroking Dorian’s cheek. Dorian leaned his forehead against Krem’s. “What I _am_ . . . you _don’t know_. . . .”

 

“Don’t I? That remains to be seen. But I _do_ know that not _everyone_ has the luxury of being born in the body that most suits them,” Dorian murmured solemnly, only for Krem to freeze once more, then shudder.

 

“Dorian,” he began again, shakily, only for Dorian to cut him off with a quick peck on the lips.

 

“I know what it is you’re gearing up to confess, Krem.”

 

“You . . . do?” When Dorian nodded once, Krem drew in an uneven breath. “If that’s the case, why haven’t you stormed off in a fit of pique?”

 

Dorian shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve been . . . chewing on the notion. Turning it over to examine it, so to speak, for the past couple of hours.”

 

“I see.” Krem closed his eyes and sighed ruefully. “That obvious, am I?”

 

“No, actually. But I’ve got quite a few friends who are trans and, well . . . there _are_ signs, for the eyes that would see them.”

 

Krem frowned, seeming to deflate even more. Dorian made a tutting sound and leaned into Krem’s touch once more.

 

“I also see—also _know_ that there are more ways to be _masculine_ than the most _obvious_ ones. I know that there’s more to _your_ manhood than what may or may not be between your legs. I. . . .” Dorian smiled when Krem’s eyes opened again, a bright, bronzy glitter from such a brief distance. “I know that sex with you . . . may be more of a complex and _careful_ affair than it is with the average man, but then . . . the _average man_ is not what I’m interested in. It never has been.”

 

Krem let out a breath he’d apparently been holding and shuddered again. “I’ve dated other people who’ve said the same . . . only to discover that a man without a prick isn’t their cuppa, after all.”

 

“And I can’t promise that there won’t be a learning curve . . . a period of _adjustment._ I can’t promise I won’t inadvertently say or do somethings insensitive or gauche, simply because this— _you_ —are new to me.” Dorian leaned back to look Krem in the eyes, searching the wary, almost tortured gaze that held his own. “But I _can_ promise that time and effort to learn and adjust, is time and effort I’m willing to _make_. And not just in bed, but _out_ of it . . . getting to know you. Exploring . . . _possibilities_ with you.”

 

Krem closed his eyes for a few moments, long lashes fluttering delicately on his cheek, before opening them to search _Dorian’s_ gaze, now.

 

Finally, he took another deep breath and smiled, wary and small, but a smile, nonetheless. When Dorian returned it, Krem bobbed up to plant a soft kiss on his lips, sweet and simple. Dorian practically melted into it. Into _Krem_ , who wound strong arms around his waist.

 

It wasn’t long before sweetness and simplicity gave way to something markedly _less_ chaste. Dorian wrapped his arms around Krem’s neck and groaned when Krem’s hands slid from his waist, to his arse.

 

After a couple of promising, just-right squeezes, even Dorian’s _inner-bitch_ was effectively silenced.

 

“I rather doubt that learning curve will be as steep as I imagined,” Dorian panted when Krem’s kisses turned to ear and neck, turned to licks and love-bites. He ran his fingers down Krem’s stubbly nape and sighed. “Not steep _at all_.”

 

“Mm,” Krem agreed, nuzzling Dorian’s Adam’s apple. “So . . . ‘bout how long do you reckon it’ll be before you’ve . . . _adjusted_ enough for me to suck your cock?”

 

Dorian shivered, then chuckled throatily. “ _Five,_ ” he replied enigmatically. Krem hummed thoughtfully.

 

“Five _what_?”

 

“ _Four_ ,” Dorian answered, leaning back to smirk at Krem. The other man’s eyes widened and an awed, utterly ridiculous grin crept across his boyish face.

 

“Oh,” he breathed, blinking and blushing. Dorian winked and nodded at Bull’s waiting truck.

 

“ _Three_ ,” he said, sultry, soft, and pointed. Then he was laughing as Krem dragged him off to the truck—opening Dorian’s door and handing him in, no less, which was good for a smoldering _look_ from Dorian.

 

“ _Twooooo_ ,” Dorian moaned twenty seconds later, and bit his lip after Krem threw the truck into gear and peeled out of the standing zone . . . one square hand _high_ on Dorian’s thigh.

 

Of course, they _didn’t_ reach Dorian’s by the time _One_ rolled around. But they _did_ make it to the nearest muni-parking lot, where curves were learned, a significant dent was made in that adjustment period, and Bull’s formerly pristine truck got the Christening it’d long deserved.

 

And for the first portion of a night—or, perhaps, _longer_ —spent together, that was, indeed, good enough to be going on with.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: “Dorian/Krem on a date, modern, good night kiss.”
> 
> (Special thanks to MurderousLady for the lovely prompt and cheerleading. For Krem done right, check out their DA I fic.)
> 
> For more beetle-y goodness, check out my Works or say hi on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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